Earlier today, the Cub discovered that he is not, in fact, a Superhero and therefore, cannot fly. Well, maybe he can fly but his landings suck. In short, he broke his wrist after falling (jumping with the intention of flying) out of a swing at the daycare.
In typical Man-Cub fashion, he didn’t cry about the pain, instead, choosing to suck it up and soldier on. But, once the wrist swelled to a nice plump ham hock-looking specimen, the director of the daycare could indulge him no longer and called Hugh in for a consult. He agreed with her determination that an x-ray was probably called for, alerted me and; off to the ER we went.
The Cub finally cried upon receiving confirmation of the fracture. Not because it hurt but, because he realized that his baseball season was over, two games and a tournament short of the rest of his team.
He recovered his good cheer once I promised that he could be the dugout manager rather than a bench-warmer at tonight's double-header and, once again; all was right with the world.
Even better; his streak of annual visits to the ER remains intact.
On a related note; if I survive his childhood, it will be a miracle.